


Homecoming

by kindaquirky



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: #20Batteen, Angst with a Happy Ending, Batman day, Gen, Good Parent Alfred Pennyworth, Introspection, Mediocre Parent Bruce Wayne, Unclear Narrator, at least I think so, sorry bout that, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-11-02 11:10:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20725859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindaquirky/pseuds/kindaquirky
Summary: It’s the late afternoons that always find him walking the halls. He should be preparing for the late night he knows all of them will have. He should check equipment, secure excuses for those that may need to leave meetings or dates early. He should be doing the million other little things that are necessary for the everyday.Instead, he walks the manor slowly, reminiscing over loved ones lost, and loved ones gone.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in...about an hour and with only a quick read through for editing, as I got a snap from [ ANebulaDarkly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anebuladarkly) reminding me it was Batman Day. 
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes you see, and I hope you enjoy!

It’s the late afternoons that always find him walking the halls. He should be preparing for the late night he knows all of them will have. He should check equipment, secure excuses for those that may need to leave meetings or dates early. He should be doing the million other little things that are necessary for the everyday.  
Instead, he walks the manor slowly, reminiscing over loved ones lost, and loved ones gone.

Richard, _call me Dick, everyone else does!_ Had always been an early riser. Standing outside his room, still his even after all the years of tribulation, he can picture opening the door to see the young boy awake, dressed, and already trying to get in trouble while he waited for the rest of the house to wake. Even when he had been Robin, it had taken years to break him of rising with the sun. Now, looking around the room, bare of any hints of the young man that had once lived there, except for the thick, dark curtains that had been installed, he feels a rush of sadness that Dick had probably seen more sunrises through the lenses of his mask after a long night than not. 

He pauses at the stairs, hand resting atop the rail. He can remember placing that hand on a young Tim’s shoulder, pushing him towards the room that had been aired out just for him. Stopping at the top of the staircase, cataloging a part of the manor he never thought to be welcomed. Never believing he would be offered a place in the Wayne household, and never wishing for the circumstances that made it necessary. Tim’s thin shoulders had shook under his light touch, still trying to keep up the facade of strength to hide heartbreak. He had kept that steadying hand on Tim though the slow, hiccuping walk, until the young man had reached the door and whispered the need to be left alone. He drops his gaze to the top stair, where the scuff mark from Tim’s sudden halt still rests. He steps over the mark, well aware that Tim had felt an outsider from the beginning, and that the years had done nothing to dissuade him, no matter what he tried.

The library had always been Jason’s hideaway. Of course, all the boys had used it, tables covered in schoolwork, feet tucked under cushions on the long couches, books spilled haphazardly on the floor thanks to an impromptu nap. But the library had been the only place Jason had felt comfortable, felt safe, for a long time. _Libraries don’t kick out kids for sleeping_ he had whispered on late afternoon, wiping the sand out of his eyes. Favorite books had found their way from their designated shelves to rest near a certain window. Well loved cushions and a soft blanket had later made their home under the same patch of sunlight, where Jason could so often be found, curled around a book, dozing in the afternoon warmth. The books, long untouched still found their home on that table, unmoved until the hands that loved them most came home to flip through them again. The blanket he notices, still tenderly folded and placed in the window, is now much too small for the man that once huddled beneath it, has been bleached by the sun from years of disuse, still waiting for its owner to come back and reclaim it.

An old study has slowly become Damian’s domain. Tokens gained from teammates, friends, companions found on the winding road of his childhood adorn the heavy bookcases. Any ceremonial weapons lives in the cave, but bright photographs of children, of young adults, laughing in some, solemn in others, hold just as important a place as any hard won war token. Artwork, both favored originals of Damian’s and reprints of masters line the walls, giving the small, heavily wooded room a brightness that nowhere else Damian has called home has ever had. The window, facing the back of the estate grounds, has a faulty latch he’s well aware of. The fact that it so easily gives Damian and Titus access to the grounds when the house feels too small, when the pressures placed upon him, both real and imagined become too heavy is also something he’s well aware of, and the reason it’s the only window in the house that still doesn’t latch perfectly. The fact that Damian, still so young but is already learning how to escape makes his chest tighten, sorrow warring with the knowledge that all birds must leave the nest.

He finally lets his feet lead him through the clock, into the cave, where Batman’s silhouette is already outlined against the screens filled with pictures of some of Gotham’s most wanted. This one had not called the upstairs manor home in years, not truly. Not since the night Alfred brought him home and needed to forcibly move the silent boy from the entrance to his parent’s master bedroom, now forever empty. He watches, as Batman turns to see Alfred walking towards him, and slowly, Bruce smiles at him. 

Alfred looks at the world his son has built, looks as the cases filled with his children’s suits, and weapons, and a bright post-it note Timothy had left for Dick on his bike. At Damian’s swords hung next to Timothy’s extra bo, net to Jason’s ‘second favorite’ set of throwing stars. Looks at the set of brightly colored pens next to a sketchpad, a picture half-finished and waiting for its master. The jacket Tim had discarded hast night, folded on top of Damian’s boots, and Damian’s gloves tossed on top of Tim’s cowl. Looks at the life that has found its way somehow, against all odds.  
“Late start to your day?” Bruce asks, laugh lines appearing around his eyes as he smiles.  
“Just a bit of a walkabout,” he replies, finally at home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks everyone for trudging through that sad, overly angsty short!


End file.
